𝒯𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒶 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓃𝑔
The sound of my alarm slices through the room like a blade—sharp, merciless, unapologetic.
It doesn't just wake me.
It cuts through whatever fragile peace I managed to hold onto while sleeping.
The shrill beeping rattles through my chest, bouncing off the walls of my small bedroom until it becomes all I can hear. My hand shoots out from under the blanket, fingers trembling slightly as they fumble across the nightstand. They graze the edge of a book, knock over a pen, finally land on the snooze button.
Silence follows, but it's the heavy kind — the kind that settles in your bones instead of in the air.
For a moment I don't move.
I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling that feels a little lower every day. The paint has tiny cracks running through it now — hairline fractures that probably don't matter to anyone else, but I see them. I see every flaw. Every little break. I see myself in it sometimes.
The sheets feel cold against my bare legs. The pillow still smells faintly like lavender from the spray my mom bought, hoping it would help me sleep better. It didn't. Nothing does.
But I breathe anyway — shallow, uneven — forcing air into lungs that don't seem willing to cooperate this early.
Today is a new day.
That's what people always say.
Teachers. Posters. Motivational quotes on Instagram.
As if a new calendar box has the power to erase everything sitting behind my ribs.
As if pain takes weekends off.
As if trauma resets overnight.
As if the past knows how to stay in the past.
I push myself upright, slowly, like my body needs convincing. My muscles ache from tossing and turning. My neck feels tight. My head heavy.
The curtains are still drawn, darkening the room except for thin slits of sunlight that seep through like they're searching for me. Dust floats in the beams, weightless and unbothered, drifting wherever the light directs them.
I envy that.
My gaze moves to my desk.
To the thing I spend every morning avoiding.
The picture frame.
Even from across the room, I can see the faint outline of us through the glass. It shouldn't hurt to look at a memory, but it does. Memories have claws — especially the ones you didn't ask to lose.
I stand up slowly, each step across the cold wooden floor sounding too loud in the quiet room. My fingers hover over the picture for a second before I finally pick it up.
There we are.
Me, with my hair in messy braids, freckles unbothered across my nose, smiling so wide it almost looks painful.
Hardin, slightly taller even back then, his arm wrapped around me, pulling me close like he always used to. His smile was different in those days — genuine, unguarded, warm in a way that felt safe.
Like he belonged next to me.
Like he wanted to.
His eyes in the picture are the part that hurt the most to look at. Because the boy in that photo didn't hate anyone. He didn't push people away. He didn't drown himself in alcohol or light cigarettes like they were oxygen.
He certainly didn't hurt me.
Back then... he couldn't even stand the smell of smoke.
He'd wrinkle his nose, wave his hands dramatically, tell me he'd never understand how anyone put that stuff in their lungs — "especially after what it did to my mom," he said once, voice small and cracking in a way only kids can sound.
That boy is gone.
Replaced by someone harder. Someone sharp. Someone who uses cruelty as armor.
Someone who looks at me like I'm a stranger.
I swallow, but the lump in my throat is stubborn. I hold the picture tighter, the glass cooling my fingertips, grounding me even as it hurts.
I tell myself every week that I should take it down.
Put it in a drawer.
Throw it away.
Do something that screams I'm moving on.
But taking it down feels... final.
Like burying a version of him that maybe still exists somewhere deep inside.
Like admitting he doesn't care.
Like admitting I care too much.
My chest tightens gently, followed by a deeper ache that spreads through my ribs like pressure I can't release.
"Why am I like this?" I whisper to the empty room, though I know it won't answer.
I look at the picture for one more second — one too long — then flip it face-down.
But I can't put it away.
Not yet.
My hand stays resting on the frame, fingers curled just slightly, as if part of me is still clinging to the warmth of the past, even though it burned me a long time ago.
peel off my oversized sleep shirt and for a second the air in my room feels colder, sharper, almost invasive. The light that slips through the gaps in my curtains lands on my skin in uneven patches, making everything about me look softer and harsher at the same time — a contradiction I'm getting used to.
I step in front of the mirror.
My reflection appears slowly, like she's hesitant to show up.
I wish she wouldn't.
Tired eyes stare back at me, ringed with the faint shadows of all the nights I pretended I was okay. My hair sticks up in places I didn't know hair could stand. My skin looks stretched thin, almost translucent, as if all the color has been drained out and replaced with something muted.
There's a heaviness around my face — not physical, but emotional, like there's a sadness hovering just behind my eyes that refuses to leave. A sadness that feels older than I am.
I hate looking at myself.
Not because I'm dramatic.
Not because I want attention.
But because the mirror feels like it's telling the truth too loudly.
It highlights every flaw, every insecurity, every part of me I wish I could hide inside the sweater that's lying on my bed.
My stomach twists.
My jaw locks.
And my gaze drops before I can stop it.
I don't look like the girls Hardin hangs around with.
The girls who laugh too loud, flip their hair too perfectly, glide through hallways like they're untouchable.
They're tiny, glowing, confident in their own noise.
I'm none of those things.
I'm too quiet.
Too soft-spoken.
Too... me.
And somehow, being me doesn't feel enough anymore.
My eyes drift lower, and then—
I freeze.
My wrist comes into view, exposed under the harsh morning light.
A breath catches in my throat — quick, sharp, almost like a flinch. A mixture of guilt, shame, and something strange I don't know how to name fully.
I lift my hand slowly, almost unwillingly, and let my fingertip hover before gently tracing along my skin.
Not pressing.
Not hurting.
Just... acknowledging.
The contact is small, but it sends a wave of coldness through me. A reminder of the nights when everything inside felt too loud and too heavy, and I looked for ways — bad ways, quiet ways — to make it stop for a little while.
It's not something I'm proud of.
It's not something I want anyone to know.
But sometimes it feels like the only moment where my brain goes quiet, where the thoughts stop clawing at each other, where Hardin's cruel words get pushed to the back of my mind and my heartbeat feels like mine again.
It's the only place the pain stops screaming.
The only place I can breathe without feeling like I'm drowning in a storm no one else even sees.
Just for a moment.
My throat tightens again, harder this time.
I blink fast, willing the sting behind my eyes to go away.
"No," I whisper to myself.
A command.
A plea.
Enough.
Just... enough.
I drop my arm and inhale shakily, trying to pull myself back from the edge of thoughts that always want to drag me somewhere darker.
I turn away from the mirror, reaching for my jeans and pulling them on with stiff movements. The denim is slightly rough, grounding me just enough to keep me steady.
Then I grab my oversized sweater — the thick, heavy one that's too warm for today but necessary. It's become my armor. My shield. My safe place.
It slides over my head and settles around me like a barrier between me and the world. The sleeves swallow my hands, hiding what I don't want anyone to see. The fabric is soft against my skin, but the weight of it is what calms me. It makes me feel contained, less exposed.
I smooth the hem of the sweater, tugging it down even though it already covers everything.
I know people will ask why I'm wearing it.
I know Mom will worry quietly.
I know Steph will look at me with that soft frown that says she wants to help but doesn't know how.
But it doesn't matter.
I need something between me and the world today.
Something that hides the war happening under my skin.
Something that keeps me from falling apart in front of people who would never understand.
I finally tear my gaze away from the mirror, grab my glasses off the dresser, and slide them on.
"Good enough," I whisper to my reflection.
But even I don't believe it.
The smell of coffee drifts up the staircase long before I even reach the bottom—warm, rich, familiar in a way that feels almost protective. It fills the hallway like a blanket, softening the edges of the morning. Mom always makes coffee at the same time, with the same brand she's bought for years, brewed in the same old machine that wheezes like it's tired too.
Her routines are constant. Predictable.
I envy her for that.
My fingers trail along the wooden railing as I step down each stair. The wood is smooth from years of hands sliding across it—mine, hers, my dad's before he left. The grooves and small scratches are like a map of all the mornings we survived. Somehow that texture, that history carved into wood, steadies me more than anything else.
As I reach the bottom, I hear the quiet clink of a spoon tapping against a ceramic mug. Mom sits at the kitchen table, in her usual spot near the window where the sunlight is brightest. She looks up instantly when she hears me, her smile soft, automatic, practiced.
"Good morning, sweetie. Sleep well?"
Her voice is gentle, but there's a slight lift at the end—hopeful, almost unsure.
I force a smile and slide into the chair across from her.
"Great. Thanks, Mom."
The lie tastes familiar.
It rolls off my tongue as easily as breathing now.
She reaches for the mug she always sets aside for me—the one with tiny cracks along the handle because I dropped it last winter. I remember crying about it more than I should have. Not because of the mug, but because that day everything felt too fragile.
"Here," she says, pushing the cup across the table. Coffee with just the right amount of milk. The color is exactly the soft caramel shade she knows I like. She remembers it even when I forget to care.
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth seep into my skin. It feels grounding, like something alive pressed against my palms. I take a sip. The heat spreads down my throat, settling in my chest—a small comfort in a morning that already feels too heavy.
Mom watches me over the rim of her own cup, her brows gently tightening like she's studying me without wanting me to notice.
"Sweetie?" Her voice softens even more. "Why are you wearing a sweater? It's going to be over a hundred degrees today."
Her question slices through the quiet.
For a heartbeat, everything inside me tenses.
My gaze drops to my sweater, fingers tugging instinctively at the sleeve—pulling it down even though it already covers everything.
"I'm just cold," I say lightly, smiling too fast, too stiff. "No big deal."
Mom's eyes stay on me a moment longer than I'd like.
She doesn't frown.
She doesn't question me again.
But something in her expression shifts—something subtle, like a tiny crack forming in a piece of glass.
She knows I'm lying.
Not fully.
Not the truth.
But enough to worry.
Yet she doesn't push.
Mom never pushes.
She thinks giving me space is kindness.
Sometimes it is.
Sometimes it feels like she's standing behind a locked door, waiting for me to speak.
Part of me is grateful.
Part of me wishes she'd force her way in.
She reaches for my purse, which hangs from the back of the chair beside her. The bag is slightly heavier than usual.
"I packed food," she says. "Something easy to eat between classes. Make sure you eat, okay?"
Her voice has that soft pleading edge again.
I nod and take the bag from her, brushing her fingers lightly.
"Thanks, Mom."
I lean over and press a kiss to her cheek. Her skin is warm, smelling faintly like the vanilla lotion she always uses. She sighs, a quiet exhale that sounds a little too relieved for a simple kiss goodbye.
"Bye," I whisper.
"Have a good day, sweetheart."
I won't.
I already know I won't.
But I nod anyway, tightening my grip on my purse strap as I walk toward the door.
I feel her eyes on my back until the second the door closes behind me.
And somehow that makes the air outside feel strangely colder.
The moment I step outside, the air crashes into me like a wall—thick, heavy, choking with the kind of heat that sticks to your skin no matter what you do. It feels like walking into a sauna disguised as a morning. The sky is too bright, the sunlight too sharp, as if the world doesn't realize I'm not ready for this day yet.
The fabric of my sweater traps warmth instantly.
Sweat collects beneath the collar and along my spine, prickling against my skin, building until it feels like my body is screaming at me to take it off.
But I can't.
The sweater feels glued to me, not just by heat but by fear.
Without it, I'd feel exposed — too exposed.
Like the world would see right through me.
I swallow back the discomfort and unlock my bike. The metal is warm from sitting in the sun, the handlebars almost hot to the touch. I swing my leg over the seat, adjust my glasses, and begin pedaling.
At first, it's almost peaceful.
The breeze cools my face in soft waves, sweeping through the strands of hair sticking to my forehead. It lifts the ends of my sweater, slips under the fabric just enough to soothe the burning on my back.
For a moment, the air feels free.
For a moment, I can pretend the world isn't pressing down on me.
I close my eyes for a single heartbeat, letting the wind brush over my lashes.
For a moment...
I can breathe.
But the moment doesn't last.
The closer I get to school, the tighter the knot inside my stomach coils. It's slow at first—just a gentle squeeze—then stronger, pulling at me like a physical force.
The road changes from quiet neighborhood streets to the busier stretch leading to the school. Cars pass by lazily, students on bikes or scooters chatter loudly, backpacks bouncing behind them. None of them seem to feel what I feel — this constant, crawling dread sitting heavy in my chest.
The school buildings rise ahead of me.
Tall.
Gray.
Unwelcoming.
Each window reflects the sunlight so harshly it looks like the school is glaring at me. The courtyard is already full — students scattered across the pavement like they belong there, like they have air to spare.
Their voices echo — laughter, shouting, reckless happiness.
They don't know what it's like to count your breaths before walking through the gates.
They don't know what it's like to scan every corner, every shadow, every doorway.
They don't know what it's like to fear someone you once trusted with everything.
I slow my bike as I reach the edge of the courtyard.
My eyes sweep the area automatically.
My heartbeat thuds against my ribs, fast, uneven.
I look near the lockers.
By the gym doors.
Near the fence where he sometimes stands.
At the benches where Molly and her group always sit like queens of something ugly.
But he isn't there.
No black hoodie.
No cigarette.
No piercing stare that pins me in place.
Nothing.
Relief floods me so quickly I nearly lose my balance. The tension in my shoulders loosens, melting like ice under heat. My grip on the handlebars eases, fingers unclenching without permission.
My breath escapes in a shaky exhale I didn't realize I was holding.
For a split second, the world feels lighter — like someone lifted a weight off my chest.
He's not here.
I'm safe.
At least... for now.
I slide off my bike and park it against the rack, my hands trembling slightly with the leftover adrenaline of fear that didn't get a chance to fully bloom.
It's ridiculous how his absence can feel like freedom.
But it does.
And that terrifies me in its own way.
Steph spots me the moment I step toward the courtyard.
"Tess!" she calls out, her voice bright enough to cut through the noise around us.
She waves wildly, like she's signaling a ship lost at sea.
And maybe that's exactly what I am—lost, drifting, searching for land.
Her grin is wide and contagious, the kind of smile that makes people around her soften automatically. That's one of the many reasons she's my safe place. Steph radiates comfort without even trying.
I walk toward her, weaving through groups of students until she reaches out and pulls me into a hug. It's gentle—not too tight, not too short—just enough to remind me that someone still chooses me. Someone still cares.
She steps back, eyes scanning me quickly before landing, of course, on the sweater.
"Girl," she says with a raised eyebrow, "why the sweater? It's literally boiling outside. Like—people-are-melting boiling."
I let out a laugh that sounds weak even to my own ears.
"I'm just cold," I say lightly, shrugging. "It's fine."
It's not fine.
But pretending is easier.
Steph tilts her head, studying me, her eyes narrowing with that familiar concern she tries to hide. She won't push—she never does—but she notices everything.
Everything I wish she wouldn't.
For a second, I'm terrified she'll ask again.
Press harder.
See too much.
But she simply nods, though her eyes soften in a way that makes my chest tighten.
"Alright," she says. "Come on, class is starting soon."
She loops her arm through mine, guiding me across the courtyard. She talks as we walk—something about her weekend, how her parents fought again, how her little dog kept stealing her socks, how her math teacher gave her extra homework for chewing gum.
Her words fill the air around me like background music, a soft hum I wish I could tune into fully.
But I can't.
My mind is already drifting, already scanning the area again, already bracing for the moment the peace cracks open.
Every voice around us feels too loud.
Every laugh feels too sharp.
Every shift of movement pulls my attention, sending tiny sparks of fear up my spine.
Steph keeps talking, oblivious to the storm brewing quietly behind my ribs.
When we reach her building, she stops at the door and turns to me.
"See you after first period?" she asks, smiling softly.
"Yeah," I manage, returning her smile—even if it feels a bit crooked.
She squeezes my arm before disappearing inside. The door closes behind her with a soft thud that echoes a little too loudly in my chest.
I take a breath.
Then another.
Trying to steady myself for the walk toward my own classroom.
I turn around, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder.
I take one step.
Then another.
And then—
It happens.
Something shifts in the air.
A subtle drop in temperature that only I seem to feel.
A ripple across the courtyard like the world is inhaling sharply.
Then two strong hands slam into my shoulders.
Hard.
My back collides with the lockers behind me, a metallic crack reverberating through the hallway. My breath catches instantly, stuck somewhere between my chest and throat. Pain flares quick and sharp across my spine, but it's nothing compared to the shock flooding through me.
My eyes screw shut on instinct.
Not again.
Not here.
Not now.
The laughter and chatter around me fade into a low hum, drowned out by the pounding of my own heartbeat.
Seconds stretch out like hours.
Finally—hesitantly—I force myself to open my eyes.
And I look straight into his.
wo hands slam into my shoulders.
Hard.
The force knocks the air right out of me. My back collides with the lockers behind me with a metallic crack that shoots up my spine and rattles my teeth. The sound echoes through the hallway—loud, sharp, a sound that feels final.
My breath catches instantly, trapped somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
It's like my lungs forget how to work.
My eyes squeeze shut on instinct, the world going dark for a second.
Not again.
Not today.
Please—just not today.
The hallway noise continues around us: laughter, footsteps, lockers slamming shut, conversations about homework and parties and everything that feels so painfully normal for everyone except me.
But underneath all of that is the pounding of my own heartbeat—wild, uneven, too loud in my ears. My fingers twitch at my sides, but the rest of me stays frozen, locked in place by fear and humiliation.
Seconds stretch into what feels like minutes.
My throat burns.
My chest feels tight.
My knees tremble just slightly, barely noticeable under my jeans.
Finally... slowly... I force my eyes open.
And I look straight into his.
Hardin.
He's so close I can see the tiny flecks of gold in his green eyes, the ones I used to think were the prettiest color I'd ever seen.
Now they look like a storm.
His jaw is clenched so tightly that a muscle jumps near the hinge, his teeth grinding together. His eyebrows are drawn together, creating a deep crease between them. Anger radiates off him like heat, sharp and wild.
But underneath all that fury...
there's something else.
Something darker.
Something broken.
His breath brushes my face—warm, familiar, unwanted.
It smells faintly like mint gum, smoke, and something that reminds me of late summer nights when we were kids and the world hadn't fallen apart yet.
That combination shouldn't affect me.
But it does.
It makes me hate myself a little.
His eyes lock onto mine, and for a split second—so fast I almost think I imagined it—I see something flicker in them.
Recognition.
Memory.
Regret.
Like he didn't mean to push me.
Like he didn't mean to touch me at all.
Like he remembered who we used to be.
But the moment dies as quickly as it came.
His expression shutters.
His eyes harden.
His mouth curls into something cruel to hide everything softer underneath.
And then he speaks.
"Tessa." His voice is low, rough, slicing through me like a blade.
"What, you think you can just walk around like no one wants you out of the way?"
Each word lands like a blow.
His voice...
God, his voice.
It's the same voice that used to whisper You're okay when I scraped my knee.
The same voice that used to tell me secrets in the treehouse behind my old house.
The same voice that used to make me laugh so hard I'd hiccup.
Now it's sharp.
Cold.
The weapon he uses most.
My throat tightens painfully.
My eyes sting.
Heat crawls up my neck and spreads across my cheeks.
I swallow, but it feels like sandpaper dragging down my throat.
I try to speak.
To say something.
Anything.
To defend myself.
To ask why.
To ask what I ever did to deserve becoming the target of all his storms.
But nothing comes out.
My voice is gone.
Trapped somewhere inside the fear, the humiliation, the heartbreak he carved into me piece by piece.
My lips part, but no sound follows.
Hardin sees it.
Of course he does.
He always sees when I'm about to break.
And instead of stopping, instead of stepping back, instead of letting me go...
He leans in closer.
Close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath ghost along my cheek.
Close enough that I catch the faint scent of smoke woven into his hoodie.
Close enough that the hallway disappears and it's just him—
The boy I knew.
The boy I miss.
The boy who hurts me more than anyone ever has.
My heart beats so loud it almost drowns out his next words.
Almost.